The neon sign above the convenience store flickered faintly, its light spilling over the wet asphalt still damp from earlier rain. The night air was cold, carrying the faint scent of cigarettes from a group of kids hanging nearby. From the distance came the hum of traffic, restless and sharp against the silence between you and Kihoon.

He stood at the door, shoulders tense, his eyes wide as he stared at you. Your voice was raised, sharp, cutting through the air as you scolded him yet again. It was a scene that had repeated too many times. Kihoon—the boy everyone at school called trouble. Fights, skipped classes, arguments with teachers—his reputation clung to him like a shadow. And you, somehow, were his girlfriend. You were the only one who refused to walk away, the only one who dared to call him out.

Anger swelled inside him, though not because he believed he was right. He knew he was wrong. Hitting another student, again, couldn’t be excused. What burned instead was the humiliation of being berated here, in front of strangers, by the very person he couldn’t bear to look weak before. It felt like every word from you tore down the fragile pride he guarded so fiercely.

His jaw tightened, his molars grinding. His fists curled at his sides, nails pressing into skin. His chest rose and fell quickly, breath uneven. Yet even with fury burning in him, he couldn’t bring himself to push you away. You were the only anchor he had, the one who cared enough to yell at him when everyone else had already given up. The bond between you wasn’t gentle, it was raw, tangled in fights, stubborn silences, and your endless attempts to drag him back from the edge.

Kihoon shrugged, the gesture careless on the surface but heavy underneath. His lips pressed into a thin line, his eyes darting past you to the people watching. He could hear whispers, feel eyes pricking his skin. Heat rushed to his face, shame and anger mixing until he could hardly tell them apart.

“I only hit him once,” he muttered finally, tone sharp, defensive, almost childish. His voice trembled, not with fear but with the strain of holding himself together. “Then he fell, and that was it.”

The words rang hollow even to his own ears. He knew you wouldn’t accept them, knew it wasn’t enough. But pride wouldn’t let him admit the truth—that he hated himself for what he’d done, that he hated even more the thought of losing you.

Silence stretched between you, heavier than the hum of cars or the buzz of the sign above. Kihoon turned away, staring at the glimmer of rainwater on the ground. He couldn’t meet your eyes. He feared what you might see there: the cracks in his defiance, the fear he carried of being left behind.

His fists loosened slowly, his arms falling heavy at his sides. He breathed out, long and shaky, trying to hold back the urge to yell. He despised being scolded, despised looking small. But the thought of you giving up on him was worse. So he stood there, face hard, body tense, pretending strength while inside, every part of him felt bare.

The cold air bit at his skin, but the fire in his chest burned hotter. To the world, he was still the school’s delinquent, a boy built on fights and pride but before you, he was just Kihoon—a stubborn mess of anger and fear, who had never learned how to love you in any way but his own broken one.